Paradox
by xMissBrightside
Summary: 'There is no reward for defiance, only tragedy'. Elizabeth Ryan - Prize of Rapture to everyone but her father. Sinclair believes she was lost in the Civil War, but stumbles upon evidence that she still could be alive.
1. Flood

**Chapter One - Flood**

**Augustus Sinclair 1968**

Dionysus Park. A haven for the creative and the rich until the flood seeped through the walls, washing away life and art in a strike envied by the gods themselves. Any remnants of life were encased in plaster and blood, as if the water had resurrected the palace in death and cement. Sinclair stared at the stranded storage crates that bobbed in the distance like beacons, gently brushing against the barnacles that had encrusted the few columns that remained intact, as if they were desperately trying to push out the force of the ocean. The light was a dim, yet sheer turquoise that reflected off the plaster, scattering fragments of colour across the water so it mutated into a haunting green that snaked around his ankles. He sighed, his shoes were getting wet.

He was following Delta into the depths of the abandoned retreat, choosing to stretch his legs rather than persevere on the train. Nearly dying from asphyxiation taught him that fresh air was a luxury, and he was determined to experience as much as he could whilst he had the time. However, Rapture's oxygen was the atmospheric equivalent of an oil slick, and coiled around his lungs with smog that felt like his organs were writhing beneath his skin. Picturing the hordes of splicers that prowled the skeleton of the city he wondered, _how do they survive?_ Then he realised the simple answer that was seared into his skull, _they're not human any__more_. His countless encounters with the remnants of the human population had taught him one thing – aim for the head with no regrets. Abiding by the code for nearly nine years had caused death to become more familiar than life, and he found that dropping the former citizens of Rapture came easier to him than lighting a cigarette. However, Sinclair was a man who preferred the blood to be on someone else's hands, and found Subject Delta to be the greatest investment since selling spirits in a strip club.

His current scheme for avoiding the threat of madness in Rapture was to trail behind Delta, and explore the aftermath. Currently, his plan was working as Dionysus Park was left deserted behind the figure as if he was walking in the wake of a tornado. He enjoyed the tranquillity; it had been a while since he had revelled in silence. Sinclair was a conman, an opportunist and proud. His traits had made him one of the last survivors of the fall of Rapture, and he had managed to make a quick buck from it. It was hard not to smile. He had never been shaken by the empathy that drove Sofia Lamb and Delta, and had managed to successfully distance himself from everyone, choosing loneliness over death. His plan was genius; with no ties, he had no weakness but himself.

He wandered into Cohen's Collection hesitantly; the man still irritated him in death. The abundance of feathers and silver had always disturbed him at Fort Frolic, but he pitied the people that emerged from its doors even more so. Sander Cohen had always been in the ideal position to start a revolution, and would have been a master manipulator if he hadn't succumbed to ADAM and insanity. He could count the times he had met the man on one hand, and could also count the things he admired about him on the other.

With scrutinizing eyes wandering around the room, Sinclair waded through the remains of dead art and floodwater, feeling the walls and stray furniture in the darkness to help find his way. He cursed under his breath as the water clung to his slacks and seeped into his shoes, he felt as if he was walking on sponges, and slipping under the weight. He started to regret his venture, preferring the comfort of a dry train booth and dignity that remained intact. However, he had felt a sharp pain of curiosity the minute the train had rolled into the flood drenched dock, and believed that the only way to satisfy thirst was through blood. Besides, there was no harm in exercise, he thought before realising that no soul in Rapture cared about physique and wellbeing.

A desk lay upturned in the water, reaching towards the ceiling like a stranded ship. It attracted his attention and he sifted through the flood to reach it, helplessness was his flame. He found nothing more satisfying than watching the fall of something beautiful; it made him feel better about himself. He rummaged through the drawers, looking for answers rather than money. His collected wealth could buy him half of Rapture in its prime, and could salvage its remains in the present. Exploitation was an art, and he had mastered it better than Picasso had conquered the paintbrush. Cigarettes, pistol rounds, a photograph. He picked up the photo, it was damp around the edges as the ink started to run and felt limp in his hands. He glanced at the woman in the photograph, she was pretty with flowing dark hair. Feeling cynical he tossed the picture back in the drawer, deciding that she was either spliced or dead. He hoped for the latter, it would cause him less trouble. He took the cigarettes, praying that they weren't drenched and useable. He was running short, and nicotine seemed to be a great refuge in a wasteland.

He slammed the drawer and sighed, it wasn't half as exciting as he had expected it to be. He was hoping to find dirt on Cohen or something that would interest him more than a dead girl and a last stand. He reached for the radio in his pocket and summoned Delta, feeling uneasy in the silence. He didn't want to watch his safety net slip from his grasp, especially when they were hard to come by.

"Kid! You there? Feels like I'm talkin' to this wall o'er here," he called, waiting patiently for a reply. He was optimistic; the brute hadn't spoken a word since they met. "Never mind, you jus' keep on dancin' out there, seem to be doin' a mighty fine job to me," he continued apologetically, feeling as if he was torturing the man by making him speak. He didn't know whether his voice had been lost beneath the suit, or whether his accent was difficult to understand. Silence washed through the doors, drowning him in a tense, unsettling atmosphere. He was numbed to this feeling having lived in Rapture for nearly twenty years, however, he was still open to surprises, and he didn't like the suspicion emanating from the plaster clad figures that danced around Cohen's Collection. Anxiously, he retrieved the pistol rounds from the drawer. There was nothing more comforting than a fistful of lead.

He turned towards the exit, groaning as he flailed in the gravity of the water and his slacks curled into a whirlpool around his ankles. It was a long way back. Starting towards the doorway he waded through the water, stopping short as he noticed a poster leaning between the skeleton of a chair and a storage crate. He pushed through the water and reached the crate, knocking the poster free with his foot. He picked it up, stumbling slightly as he freed it from the chokehold of the flood. It was red and faded with time and neglect. He recognised the figure, it was her. He dropped the poster, allowing the water to engulf the figure as she winked back at him. He was losing it.

He pressed his fingers to his forehead, hoping to block out the pain of memory. He had done well to hide it for nearly eight years, buried deep in the back of his mind beneath business ventures and survival tactics. Feeling guilty, he rescued the poster as it bobbed helplessly in the water and placed it on the desk, closing his eyes sadly and hiding from the figure as she scrutinised him. He cursed under his breath, he wasn't thinking rationally. She wasn't real, she was paper and glue and couldn't feel anything. He snapped his eyes open, preparing for the worst. He had sold the world, washed the blood from his hands and sat back as his city burned, but he could not bring himself to look her in the eye.

'Elizabeth Ryan. Fleet Hall, 12th September 1958'

He could recall the night as clearly as the lights of the city that glowed from the window. A decade had passed since the show, and eight years had passed since she had been lost in the Civil War. Understandably, many had been lost, some by his hand, but he couldn't have prepared himself for losing her. He removed himself from the past and found himself standing in the floodwater, alone and dazed. He could feel a headache coming, as if chisels were tearing away at his conscience.

Giving up, he stepped away from the scene, sliding through the water towards the exit. However, intuition struck him as his face was lit in the glittering sconces of Rapture's night sky. He had an idea. The storage crate moved into a desiring position in the water and flailed as if trying to gain his sympathy. He pulled at the crate, dragging it behind him through the flood and onto the permeable embankment that was the exit. The plaster that coated the tiles was thick, dense, and stuck to his shoes like glue as he slipped onto the platform. It was not his day. Kneeling by the crate he pushed the lid off, feeling dust and time whip around his face like a sandstorm. He peered in curiously, and was met with twisted metal and flashing red lights. Jackpot.

He made his way back onto the train, the crate following him diligently. There was nothing more he loved than dollar bills, but secrets came a close second, and the thought of opening a crate containing at least twenty audio diaries was as fruitful as El Dorado. He perched in his chair, shook the water from the cigarettes and watched the fire snake from the holder as smoke circled the cabin. Delving into the depths of the crate he reached for the first log, the metal was cool in his hand, and he stared at the grooves inquisitively, life was good when you were the only sane one left. He pressed play, and leant against the window, hoping to become immersed in secrets and dealings of the dead. However, he was met with the voice he least wanted to hear, and choked on a ring as the smoke crept from his lips.

'_She's taking me to Persephone, seems the right thing to do to me. The mighty will fall, and sinners will be frozen in hell till the debt is paid. They burned down my house, took __everything that ever mattered to me. Well, she won't be locking my voice away I'll be telling you that. I will scream so loud that the Atlantic itself can hear me. What does it matter, not a soul is tuning into the radio anymore.'_

He froze. The charade shattered. It was her. It was easier to ignore her picture, but her voice? It was as if ten years of memory had been swimming in his sub-conscious and crying to break free. He was overwhelmed. The possibility of her being alive made him ecstatic yet anxious. He had left her to drown in Rapture; she would hardly glow behind the bars when she saw him again. If she was alive that is. Identities had a habit of being stricken from existence in Rapture, and he would be surprised if the fire hadn't got to her. However, Lamb indulged in torture when it came to Andrew Ryan, and leaving his daughter in a cell to rot wasn't beyond the psycho, he thought. He looked at the date – 17th June 1960. It had been eight years. But there was still hope, and Sinclair had always been proud of his ability to look on the bright side. He looked out of the window into Dionysus Park, the water seemed to glow a more vivid green than before, as if it was trying harder to compete with his optimism. He smiled softly; nothing could rain on his parade, even at the bottom of the Atlantic.

**Disclaimer****:** I do not own any characters or settings apart from Elizabeth.

**Author's Note:** This is my first Bioshock story, and after reading a few others I was disappointed to find that there was little on great characters such as Sinclair, Ryan and Gil Alexander! So I thought I'd write my own, and my story details the events of the Civil War, which I find to be little documented on the site also.

Anyway, my story will follow the character of Elizabeth Ryan (Yes I know, relatives amongst canon are common and usually poorly executed, but I couldn't produce a character that would command such an importance amongst others in the canon, so she does serve a purpose!) and will mainly follow a flashback form alongside Sinclair's present. I will promise that once all introductions have been done, there will be plenty of action, drama, romance and tragedy to entertain you!

However, I will warn that it will be a slow burning story (sorry!) as that is what I love, so I do ask for a bit of patience with the plotline. I do hope you enjoy reading!


	2. Defiance

**Chapter Two - Defiance**

**Elizabeth Ryan 1956**

'_Science is everything. The city is everything. The future is what I want it to be. I'm twenty-five, alone, and stranded at the bottom of the ocean with no option but to obey. It's not as bad as theory makes it out to be, it is a life more prosperous than the surface. I have seen war, seen death as it tore apart the lives of everyone with no one to blame but humanity. Rapture is equal, is opportunity, and is as impossible as Atlantis. This is what my father has taught me, and I have no other choice than to believe it. There is no reward for defiance, only tragedy.' _

Elizabeth's eyes wandered around the room suspiciously, watching the Rapture Elite circle like vultures picking at an empty carcass. She sighed, she hated these meetings. It felt as if she had been thrown into a whirlpool of the loudest, greediest, most egomaniacal people in the city, and she was flailing helplessly in the centre, treading water to save herself from drowning. She could feel their eyes upon her with scrutiny, searching for any similarity with her father. Apart from her dark brown hair and blue eyes, there was nothing. She couldn't command a room like him, couldn't speak with sincerity or hold the same stern gaze he had become so familiar with. Most wondered if she really was his daughter, or whether she was a girl brought from the surface as a popularity ploy. She was starting to believe the latter. He had spoken little to her since the establishment of the city, choosing to ferry her to each press meeting and have her smile for the camera. She was becoming impatient, and had little enthusiasm for the latest, choosing to dwell in the corner of the room and hope nobody came close to the shadows.

She could see him coming from the distance. He had left the company of a short, young woman who she guessed was of German descent due to her accent, and was pushing his way through the crowd with determination towards her. She sighed, and wondered which desperate face he was going to sell her to now. He tapped the shoulder of a small, weakly built man as he strode past, who turned and followed him diligently as if his future depended on serving the man. Elizabeth sucked in her breath, straightened her back and tried to look interested as she smoothed the wrinkles in her dress from where she had been sitting down.

"I would like you to meet my daughter Elizabeth, Mr Cohen," said Andrew Ryan, pausing as he stared at Elizabeth coldly. She straightened her back further on cue, and flashed the man before her a welcoming smile with half the sincerity of her father's.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Ryan," said the artist, as if he was wrapped under Ryan's thumb also. He seemed to be indifferent to Ryan's controlling eyes, but acted as if he was regularly on the receiving end.

"The pleasure is mine Mr Cohen," said Elizabeth monotonously, holding out her hand as the man kissed her knuckles politely. He looked up at her, and she saw strange resemblance, as if the man was a cross breed between Salvador Dali and a weasel. He had cold, severe stare that was masked by enthusiasm, and a moustache that curled comically towards his cheekbones. She pitied him. He seemed to stare emptily as If he had lost his identity the minute he descended on the Atlantic, and that his present was governed by Rapture.

"He is an artist Elizabeth, one of the best. He can make you into a star," Ryan replied enthusiastically, attempting to push her into the desired direction.

"That I can. A beautiful face like yours was made for the stage," said Cohen, grinning at his own flattery. She was pretty, but not beautiful to him. It was as if God gave her perfect features – glittering eyes, a heart-shaped jaw, high cheekbones, and then altered the positions slightly, so she remained, ordinary. Angular was the future of fashion, and Sander Cohen pictured Elizabeth to become lost amongst the majority in a decade unless she queued at Steinman's door with a fistful of dollars and a razor.

"That's brilliant Mr Cohen, except I have greater passion for science than the 'stage', don't I father?" snapped Elizabeth, bowing slightly and taking her leave. She felt the glares burn holes into her back from behind, but she continued mercilessly towards the door. Andrew Ryan stood defiant at the top of the stairs with Cohen, who had managed to shrink into the woodwork. He had found common ground between the man and his daughter-obstinacy.

Elizabeth breathed in the cool air, feeling refreshed in the silence. Understandably, silence wasn't a prominent characteristic at Ryan Industries due to the grinding machinery and rattling metal that provided an underlying current for the behemoth, but the roaring fire of the refinery was far more comforting than the black ties that watched from the other side of the door. She was unhappy, and she knew it. Trapped in a marriage to a man she didn't love, ruled by a father who didn't care and stuck at the bottom of the Atlantic – her prospects weren't high. However, twenty years of dancing on strings had lost her voice, and she could do nothing other than persevere and hope that one day she would see the sun.

She removed her shoes and tossed them down the stairs, laughing as they toppled and bounced across metal helplessly. Hitching her dress up, she edged towards the end of the platform and gazed into the bottom of the reactor, feeling the heat from the fire warm her skin. She could spend all day lying by the reactor; she loved the feeling of being near an innovation. She heard the door slide open behind her, but she ignored the footsteps, believing it to be her father commanding her back into the room, or one of his goons ordering her to.

"Invention is a wonderful thing, is it not?" cried an over-enthusiastic voice behind her shoulder in a flurry of heightened ups and downs. She did not recognise it, and swivelled nervously on her heel to meet him.

"Yes, and only appreciated by the few Mr…?" replied Elizabeth.

"Alexander," he answered, offering his hand to Elizabeth, who returned the gesture suspiciously. "Gilbert," he added as he released his grip. She looked up at him, and was met with a cocktail of confusion and anxiety. She was about to ask him what she had done wrong before realising that this must be his normal expression, he seemed to have an empty stare which suggested he was shell-shocked, and didn't really know what to do about it. However, she felt strangely safe around him; he didn't seem to glare at her with the same expression that haunted the majority of Rapturians.

"You a man of science Mr Alexander?" asked Elizabeth with interest. He was dressed in a tight fitting suit, had hair that was combed backwards and seemed to possess an aura of intelligence. Everything about him suggested that he was a scientist, not that she was stereotypical.

"Fontaine Futuristics," said Gilbert cautiously, wondering which side Elizabeth played for. So far, she seemed to be the twenty five year-old equivalent of Switzerland.

"I wondered why I haven't seen you before, apart from on those posters he insists on plastering around Rapture," muttered Elizabeth.

"Not my finest moment," he replied, feeling slightly embarrassed. He didn't enjoy walking to work and seeing his own eyes staring back at him, condemning him for ever leaving the surface. "I heard you were an undergraduate in biology," he continued, changing the subject from himself.

"Yeah, on the surface," she laughed, her former life seemed so distant. It was if the Elizabeth from five years ago was a separate person. She envied her.

"Stanford?"

"Daddy paid the entrance," said Elizabeth sarcastically, feeling ashamed.

"From my experience, you learn from practice, not from books," said Gilbert shifting his weight to his right foot as Elizabeth regarded him curiously. "And I also heard you were interested in science," he continued, sensing her eyes glitter beneath her lashes at the prospect.

"Are you offering me a job Mr Alexander?" she asked quietly, trying to bury her enthusiasm, a laboratory was no place for her.

"I might be," he replied. Elizabeth seemed to remain frozen at his words, as if she was thinking of every possible benefit and consequence of the idea. "Think about it," he said as he turned for the door, knowing that she was already thinking. It was her father that needed to think about her future. Elizabeth watched the door close behind him and sat on the edge of the platform, confused as to whether to be excited or anxious.

X X X

Elizabeth slid the door to her father's office and crept inside. The lights were off, and the room was silent, causing her to feel uneasy and hesitantly close the door. She could see the shadow of a figure standing irritably by the window, as if he was trying to intimidate the ocean. Elizabeth frowned; she could predict which direction the conversation was hurtling towards by the outline of his stance. She shuffled in the dark towards him, her hand curled slightly upwards for balance. He turned to face her sternly, his arms folded behind his back in a formal manner. She felt as if she was in an interview, or pleading for her life at the hands of an executioner.

She had seen this expression once before, eighteen years previously when her mother had packed her suitcase and stood leaning against the doorframe defiantly. He hadn't protested, and held the door open for her as she waltzed into her new life. Elizabeth wondered if they had ever cared about each other, or whether their relationship was a strategy rather than a choice. She had little communication with her mother outside pen and paper, when she had sent her a postcard each birthday as a gift as she saw the world. Elizabeth didn't mind, her mother was a cold woman and had given her little attention as a child, and it was hard to miss what she believed never existed.

"I've made a deal with Cohen," said Ryan coldly, as if the issue wasn't in debate. Elizabeth frowned as he glanced towards his desk, her rebellion only stretched so far, even she was nervous in her father's presence. "He wants you at the Fort as soon as possible. I say you make yourself available and establish a good impression…for us and the city," he continued, swilling a shot of whiskey that he had acquired from his desk.

"I'm not going," said Elizabeth quietly, feeling under-confident. It was easier to defy a man when he was in the presence of fifty other men he didn't particularly like, and had become tired of courtesy. The anger could easily be diluted and directed towards someone else. However, Elizabeth was alone, and his furious gaze could only be fixated on her. She contemplated withdrawing into the shadow behind her or escaping through the door when his back was turned.

"I think I will be the judge of the that, I know what is best for you," he replied curtly, feeling as if he was being challenged by the young girl who seemed to be drifting further towards the doorway at every word.

"I'm twenty-five, I can make a decision on my own," she snapped, her nails scratching irritably at her arm.

"You are too young to make a significant or successful decision," said Ryan, watching her hand drift carelessly about her arm – a habit she had inherited from her mother. He would have never reduced himself to such a tendency; it was a sign of weakness. He frowned; it was as if she was dragging nails through flesh to aggravate him further.

"Was that the same thing you said to my mother?" asked Elizabeth, her eyes fixated and searching for a reaction. She swore she noticed him flinch slightly beneath his suit and stern exterior. She knew his Achilles heel, even if it was buried deep within formalities and sunken memories.

"And we both know the consequence of free will," he said coldly, watching Elizabeth fold her arms tighter as a sign of self-defence and frustration. "How was the morgue?" he asked, his lip curled arrogantly. She raised an eyebrow, trying to hide her anger by grinding the nail further into her skin, causing blood to seep weakly and stain her flesh a pale red.

"Cold, could have done with a touch of paint as well," she said sarcastically, facing the wall and trying to remain somewhat defiant. "You can tell Cohen I refuse, and to send any complaints to Fontaine Futuristics. However, I don't think it'll be him who complains, he isn't the one with the motive," she continued, her hand resting on the door handle.

"Pitching for the other team? You always did succumb to the scoundrels," he retaliated, his hands clasped tightly. He buried his fury, emotion was fragile. "You are so much like your mother." Elizabeth glanced towards him angrily, and took her leave with her fist clenched. She hurtled towards the Atlantic Express, ignoring the cries of the street that beckoned her closer to bright buildings and enticing advertisements. Boarding the train she swung into an empty seat by the window, feeling the roar of the engine rattle beneath her shoes. She admired Hephaestus as the flames and machinery passed in the glass, his dream was real, and unnervingly beautiful. She did love the city, even if it had been built by the hands of her father. The buildings were intricately engraved in Art Deco, and the ocean that enveloped it cast a soft turquoise sheen, giving the city an ethereal quality. It was if it was still a dream, as if the people that haunted the streets were nothing more than imagination.

X X X

Fontaine Futuristics was an impressive building, and lay on its foundations as if it had been lifted from the future itself and sunk at the bottom of the ocean. The doors lay gently open, and Elizabeth could feel the prospects wash over her as she entered cautiously, admiring the columns of marble that towered to the ceiling. She wandered around the atrium, acknowledging the fountain that sprung from the centre. Water leapt around the golden globe that leant gently in the middle, casting a soft glow as if the world was littered with sunlight. Security allowed her passage, Gil had been telling the truth. She made her way to Fontaine's office, feeling watchful eyes follow her journey. Scientists and their assistants glared at her, believing that she was an intruder walking on the wrong side of the battlefield. A technician brought it upon himself to notify her in case she had gotten lost, but Elizabeth brushed him to the side gratefully and continued up the staircase. She smiled gently, this was her future, and was a future she had chosen for herself.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters or settings other than Elizabeth Ryan.

**Author's Note: **I thought I'd post two chapters to start to establish both character lines. Anyway, so this is the start of Elizabeth, and even though her flashbacks are going to feature more than Sinclair's present, he will be making a return next chapter. The format will start to alternate soon, with more audio diaries from both.

Thank you to everyone who has read so far and I hope you enjoyed it! Updates should be posted within the next week and a half. Let me know what you think!


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